bitten
by circleofcrows
Summary: To put it simply - Negan couldn't begin to understand why he felt something short of pity wrapping itself around him when he found out that the kid was bitten. But then again, it was bound to happen at some point.


He was just some kid.

Nothing more, nothing less; which was why he couldn't understand the unfamiliar feeling that had took ahold of him without any warning, coiling around his already-tainted mind, drawing out emotions he was certain he had left behind before the world went to shit.

And what's worse, he didn't even like the kid that much.

He was far too headstrong, determined, sickeningly like his father, and that repulsive disfiguration on his face was enough to make his stomach churn, despite his own morbid curiosity.

To put it simply - Negan couldn't begin to understand why he felt something short of pity wrapping itself around him when he found out that the kid was bitten.

But then again, it was bound to happen at some point. 

* * *

''Let me see.''

Silence.

Negan smacked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, _tsk_. He dropped to a low crouch, eye-level with the kid lying propped against the gritty stone wall of some abandoned house they'd come across a few days prior. It was nothing fancy, but it wasn't as if he could always be picky about his accommodation.

Carl ignored him, as he always did, which didn't entirely surprise Negan. If the kid wanted to drag this out, it was fine by him.

He reached out a gloved hand, attempting to smooth the hair from Carl's sweat-dampened skin, before his hand is shoved away abruptly. Negan grinned.

''Now, is that any way to behave when I just saved your life?'' Carl remained silent. Negan made a face. ''Hell, didn't your dad ever teach you any manners?''

At the mentioning of Rick, Carl looked up, eyes heavy and sunken, but they still held a bitterness reserved for Negan alone. Something about the sight of the kid looking so sickly makes Negan uneasy, but he doesn't let on.

''Alright, alright. We're gettin' somewhere. But I just want you to know that I've got a lot of patience - a lot of time, but, uh, it looks like you don't.'' He cracks a rictus grin; Carl shudders.

''Hey, I'm just sayin'. How long's it gonna be before that bite worsens and you end up walkin' around tryin' to bite everybody? Days? Hours?''

''It doesn't matter,'' came the terse response, and Negan digresses.

Carl shakes his head, sweat glistening on his skin. ''It doesn't matter,'' he repeats, closing his eyes, resting his head against the brick-wall, ''Either way, it's gonna happen.''

Negan shook his head, feigned sympathy. ''That's real unfortunate. I mean, hell, you're just a kid.''

''Why do you care?'' Carl glowers, guarding the tension in his voice. ''It's not like I'm anything more to you than... than some pawn to get what you want, so... so why even bother to-'' He inhales sharply, gritting his teeth against the sudden pain that knocks the air from his lungs.

Negan raises his eyebrows, seemingly unaffected by Carl's discomfort. ''Well, shit. I've gotta say, I'm hurt.  
I find you, bit, helpless and fuckin' pathetic as you are, and out of the goodness of my heart I bring you to safety, and you don't even have the decency to say thank you? Which brings me back to that little love bite of yours. You gonna show me or not?''

Silence lingers in the stale air where Negan expects Carl's response, but it doesn't come.

The tears burn in the corner of his eye, and he refuses to meet Negan's stare. He waits for the agonising warmth in his side to dissipate, but it only worsens and he squeezes his eyes shut.

Negan scoffs. ''Alright, kid. Have it your way.'' 

* * *

Dusk deepened to an amorous darkness, bathing the small unassuming house in a dull opacity; Carl Grimes stands, small frame hunched over a grimy bathroom sink; his reflection scowls back at him.

He was bitten little more than four hours ago.

He inhaled deeply before shedding his tattered plaid shirt, along with his grey-coloured t-shirt, both stained with half-congealed blood and sweat.

His stomach twists and lurches at the sight of what Negan described as his 'little love bite', and he stares for a few minutes, before a shaking hand instils running water from the rusted tap.

 _''We stick together. No matter what. We're family. You and I, all of these people. You understand me?''_

 _''Yeah,'' Carl had said, and Rick ruffled his hair._

So much for that.  
He hardly considered the man downstairs to be anything remotely close to family, and he sure as hell wasn't about to ask him for help.

He soaked a thin, ragged cloth in tepid water, grit his teeth, and pressed it to his bite-wound. He inhaled sharply through gritted teeth, sparks of pain shooting through his rib cage, and brought the crimson-stained cloth away, rinsing it beneath the tap water.

Fortunate enough to find a small medical box, he was able to clean the wound and bandage it up considerately, along with a bottle of pain pills that he washed down with a handful of murky water.

Later, when the flickering light stopped flickering altogether and he was left in darkness, when he became presently aware of the fever burning his skin and his knees protesting his weight, he decided to leave the security of that grimy, dingy bathroom, and make his way downstairs.

''You still human or do I need to grab Lucille?'' Negan inquired, barely sparing a glance to the kid leaning against the door frame. Carl didn't answer. ''That ain't much of a clear answer.''

''No,'' Carl muttered, pushing himself from the doorway, staggering over to drop into the two-seater facing Negan. He couldn't ignore the threatening baseball bat resting by the man's side. Negan noticed.

''Don't be shy.'' He was smiling again, and Carl wondered if he would have been better hiding out in that cramped, decrepit bathroom. Negan had Lucille in his hands now, the weapon resting over his knees. ''She's real friendly, I promise.''

Carl repressed a shudder and slumped back in the chair, letting his eye fall shut. The room was spinning, even when sitting perfectly still, and the motion sickness made his stomach lurch in warning.

''Hey.''  
Negan's voice was unnaturally soft, and Carl almost mistook it for Rick's, looking up hopefully. He took slow, laboured breaths, vision hazing and blurring at the edges. No, it was Negan. He looked concerned.

''You okay, kid?'' He shook his head, understatedly, ''I mean, hell, 'course you ain't. Here.''

The sound of something landing on the wooden table between them prompted Carl's attention, and he looked down to see a tub of ice-cream lying unattended, spoon plunged into the centre. Carl blinked.

 _''Ice-cream? For real?''_

 _Rick chuckled, nodding. He shoved the tub into Carl's hands and his eyes lit up with disbelief. ''I never thought I'd get to taste ice-cream again! This is... this is great.''_

''Why?'' he asked, deadpan serious. Negan raised a brow.

''Gonna have to be more specific there, kid. I ain't a mind reader.''

Carl looked around the room for the first time since he had been brought to the ramshackle house. It was dim, hard to make out anything beyond the candles that lit the immediate area, though he didn't doubt his growing fever had anything to do with it. At last, he looked to Negan, and shrugged. ''Why are you helping me?'' His eye lowered to the tub of ice-cream. ''Why bother?''

Negan scoffed, shaking his head. ''Now, that's just sad. I ain't ever met a kid that'd turn away goddamn ice-cream. How long's it been since you ate anythin', huh? Must be, what, days?''

''What's your point?''

Negan leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, scrutinising the boy sat opposite. The softness in his voice dissipated. ''Point is, unless you wanna piss me off, you better start eatin'.'' 

* * *

''You looked in the mirror lately? No offense, but you look like shit.''

Negan's voice startled him from whatever fever-induced unconsciousness he had slipped into and for a moment he had forgotten where he was. He might have called out for Rick, for someone he trusted, but instead he was met with the face of a man that filled him with unequaled spite, and he said nothing.

For how long he had slept he didn't know; hours, presumably.

He lacked the energy to protest when Negan laid a damp cloth across his forehead and shook his head with a sigh. ''C'mon, kid. At least say somethin'.''

''Don't bother-'' and he was referring to whatever warped sense of comfort Negan thought he was giving, but the words left in a croak and Negan only tutted condescendingly.

The fever was worsening and there was little he could do to hide it. Fire raced beneath his skin, his muscles convulsed and despite the frigid breeze from the open window his body was a furnace.

''Now you know fine rightly that if I didn't bother you'd be lyin' unconscious in some ditch, so don't go pullin' that bullshit with me.'' Negan's brow furrowed as he pressed the back of his hand to Carl's cheek.  
There wasn't much time left. He cleared his throat. ''Hey, I-''

His words were interrupted by a hacking sound. Carl turned his head, erupting into a fit of coughs, and spat blood upon the wooden floorboards.  
He hurriedly wiped his mouth, dropping his head to the pillow, but Negan's eyes missed very little.

He disappeared for a few minutes, returning with a half-empty bottle of water, and Carl relented, muttering a quiet thanks before taking it.

Negan nodded, something uncomfortable tugging in his chest that snatched the words from his throat.  
He knew that without something to hold out hope for, there was no point in feeding his delusions. 

* * *

Later, Negan stumbled across a pile of worn comics, faded and dusty, whilst scavenging for whatever supplies their temporary hold-up could offer. He had hesitated, but something tucked away in the recesses of his mind prompted him to take them.

''I dunno what you read, but, uh, thought you might like these.'' Carl ignored him; he set the comics down on the nearby table, let out a pent up sigh, and ran a hand through greying hair. Negan took a seat on the edge of the table, ''I know I ain't your dad, and I'm not tryin' to be, but you don't have to fight me, Carl. I'm not the enemy here.''

Carl looked at him, reproachfully, his skin was tinged sickly shades of blue and his veins stuck out in stark relief. ''No? Then what- what are you?''

''I'm all you've got in this shitstorm, kid. Maybe you should appreciate that.''

Carl tried to sigh, but his inhale was ragged and he ended up coughing. ''You don't- you don't have a right to-'' His throat clamped before he could manage the words, and he coughed violently, gasping for air.

Negan was already pulling him upright, rubbing circles at the kid's back while he coughed and spluttered and the tears spilled over his paled cheeks and dripped onto the tattered blanket he didn't remember being put over him, and he knew clear as day that he was going to die with a terrible, terrible awareness, and that was when he finally broke.

''I-I don't want to die-'' he choked out, his voice cracking. ''I just wanted everyone to be safe, I never... I never wanted any of this... I'm- I'm afraid, and now-''  
Negan hushed him gently, allowing the kid to sob into his chest, ran his fingers through brittle hair, and he barely noticed the tremble in his own hands or the tears burning in the corners of his eyes.

''Hey, hey, don't say that shit. It's gonna be alright, kid. It's gonna be alright. You'll see.''  
Once the tears subsided and after some convincing, Carl looked through the comics laying on the table. His consciousness was barely holding on by a thread, but he persisted and Negan did the same.

They stayed like this for a while, Carl half-muttering feverish bits and pieces of the comic panels while Negan listened, continued to stroke his hair, holding the kid in his arms.

Neither held any illusion about what would come next, but neither wanted to face the inevitable. Not yet. 

* * *

Morning light broke through the cracks of the now-boarded up windows, and Negan awoke to a silence that suffocated the small living room.

''Carl. You fallen asleep on me again?'' he murmured around a yawn and he was tired, _exhausted_ , rubbing his eyes with the heel of his palm while trying to stretch as much as the body slumped against him would allow, and that was when he realised.

''Carl?'' His voice was gravelly and unassuming as he gave the kid's shoulder a light squeeze, and he held his breath.

The fever that scorched his porcelain skin had diminished and it was now ice-cold to the touch. There was no ragged rise and fall of his chest. No shaking and coughing and crying. Carl Grimes was dead.

Negan lifted the open comic from the kid's still hands - something about superheroes trying to protect the helpless and save the day - and closed it over, exhaling shakily. _Shit_ , and he looked over Carl's frail, broken body, _I couldn't even save you._

Days later, when he hunkered down in the decrepit remains of an old Chevy, he knocked back a bottle of stale whiskey, slurred curses flowing from bitter lips that condemned Carl Grimes, a headstrong kid with an attitude and love for shitty comics; a kid that, somehow, found his way into the recesses of Negan's mind, paving an equal path of loss and pain, and _need_ , that death had claimed and there was nothing to be done for it.

He was numb to the tears that welled up in his eyes. He was numb to the feelings that seized his chest and stole the air from his lungs. He was numb to the present tremor in his blood-stained hands.

He was numb, because the world made him that way. Carl Grimes was just another testament to that.

After all, he was just some kid.


End file.
